Love Songs (They Kill Me) - Sherlock Fan Fiction
by DeathSpell
Summary: Thorn Watts moved into 221C Baker Street, with a promise to be friendly or at least civil to her new neighbours, even if they are rude and she's content to be left alone. Sherlock Holmes has no cases, and the most interesting thing he can think of is the intriguing Miss Watts from the flat below his and John's. And he's not going to be content until he knows everything about her.
1. Chapter 1

**Love Songs (They Kill Me)**

**Chapter One**

_**- 221C Baker Street -**_

I carried my last box in from the cab I'd gotten here from the station, under the wary eye of my new land-lady. Mrs Hudson seemed nice, if a little too friendly. People were the bane of my existence. I detested them. Not that I had a particular problem with Mrs Hudson, or indeed almost any member of the human race, just the few I had interacted on a personal or a semi-personal with were complete arseholes.

I almost tugged the hood of my plain black hoodie lower of my face as I felt another pair of eyes settle on me - and these ones were distinctly less friendly. With those cold eyes on me, I couldn't wait to get into my flat and settle in. IKEA had delivered my new furniture yesterday, a neighbour I knew only as 'John' had taken collection of it for me. _Maybe I should thank him_, I thought, before shrugging it off; _I would if I saw him_. The only thing I had kept was my c-d player/I-pod dock and my old armchair. It was huge, soft enough for me to sink into slightly and upholstered in deep red material. I kept a black feather pillow on it, and a white fur blanket, as more often than not I feel asleep with a book and my headphones.

Sighing, I shut my door behind me, and took off my hoodie, rubbing my hands and contemplating where things would be going. _Bookshelves; four in the living room, two in the bedroom_, I thought, leaving four of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves boxes in the living room and dragging two to the bedroom. The bed had already been put in there, along with the two bedside tables. Another thing to thank John for, I assume. I put the boxes with the lamps for the bedside tables in the bedroom, along with the lampshade for the bulb hanging from the ceiling. My flat-pack wardrobe went next, along with the chest of drawers and the rug.

The kitchen was already equipped, so I just put my kettle, cutlery, and toaster in there to be plugged in later. The same went for the bathroom; I just put the appropriate boxes in there, and the new shower curtain. Now everything was in the right room, I stood in the living room, pondering what to do first, when there was a knock on the door. Sighing, I grabbed my hoodie and pulled it on before opening the door:

"Hello, I'm John Watson." said one of the two men at the door. The one who had spoken was shorter, and had sandy blonde hair and a warm smile.

"Ah, the one who took delivery of my furniture. Thank you for that, by the way, and putting the bed in the bedroom." I said with a pleasant smile. An honest one too, which was rare for me, but I had a feeling that John was just a likeable person.

"Oh, Sherlock did the moving." John said, nudging the man who was presumably Sherlock in the ribs.

The other man was tall, had curly dark hair, and a coolly bored face. At John's nudge to the ribs, his face suddenly transformed into a fake - if convincingly fake - smile:

"Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes." he said in a pleasant voice that was just as fake as his smile.

"And you can drop the act." I replied.

"Oh, thank God." he said, his face going back to the bored expression.

John looked annoyed, but let it go as he turned back to me: "So, where did you move here from?"

"Please, John, she doesn't want to talk about her life and more importantly, I don't want to hear about it." Sherlock said.

John sighed before looking at me apologetically: "I'm sorry, he doesn't mean it."

"Yes I do."

"He does, and it's fine. I'm not a big talker anyway." I said, smiling.

John smiled and waved as he followed Sherlock back to their flat. The door shut, and I was about to shut my own when to door to their flat opened again and Sherlock was shoved out. He brushed down his blazer before turning back and walking down to my flat again. I leaned against my doorframe, and raised an eyebrow at him. He glared sullenly at me, just stood over me - or rather towered over me - and muttered something I couldn't hear.

"Excuse me?" I asked politely.

"Do you need any help?" he snapped.

"No thank-you."

"Well…can I come in an pretend to help to keep John happy?" he said, slightly deflated.

"Sure." I said, stepping back to let him in and shutting the door behind him, "So how long have you and John been together?" I asked, just to rile him up a little.

Sherlock just looked at me as if I was stupid. "We're not."

"Thought not." I said, ripping open one the bookshelves boxes and looking over the instructions. Sherlock just stayed silent as I worked early into the morning, occasionally holding a piece in place for me or making the odd comment here and there.

I couldn't say that it was the best night of my life.

The next day - well, the same day, just after six hours sleep - I pulled on the same skinny jeans and a fresh t-shirt, before shoving my purse and phone in my front pocket of my jeans before I grabbed my hoodie before I went out to buy food, and other essentials like toothpaste, shower gel and hair stuff.

I asked Mrs Hudson if she wanted anything out of politeness, but thankfully she declined, so I took the meagre remains of my last pay check and headed out. I bumped into Sherlock on the way, and similarly to last night; he didn't say much:

"Shops?" he asked.

"Yep. You?" I asked, just as shortly. I had no coffee, so I was still half asleep.

"Yes."

I grunted and walked out into the rain, hissing as the heavy rain instantly soaked through my hoodie. Sherlock looked at me, before silently giving me the blazer he was wearing under his coat.

"Thank you." I muttered, shrugging into it.

"I take it you haven't had any coffee today?" he inquired.

"How did you guess." I said sarcastically.

"Well, you-"

"I'm going to be honest, Sherlock, I'm not awake enough to care yet, and I'm not going to waste your time. I'm sure what you can do is amazing - you are the world's only consulting detective - but I'm just too tired." I said.

He smirked as he hailed a cab and opened the door for me. I climbed in and he climbed in after me, asking to go to the Sainsbury's down the road (not obviously, otherwise I would have just walked, but you get the point). The journey was spent in silence, and I rested my head on the cool glass of the window, half-wishing for my headphones.

We got out of the cab, and I pulled my purse out of my jeans pocket, but Sherlock had already paid and was gently leading me by the arm to the door of the shop. I shoved stuff from the Basic's range in my basket, wincing as I noted the rising price; I wasn't sure I had enough even though I was getting the cheapest stuff there was.

"Do you not have enough?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope." I said cheerfully, pondering what to put back.

"I can lend you some money." he said, and I looked up at him.

"Um…I don't have a job. I might not be able to pay you back for a while." I told him.

He just shrugged. "I have enough."

"Well…" I sighed. I hated being in debt to people, especially people I knew, but I really didn't have a choice, "okay, then."

He handed over three hundred six fifty pound notes.

"Thank-you, Sherlock."

He shifted before he nodded once and continued with his own shopping. I occasionally added things, and I then just walked with him as he grabbed some frankly odd ingredients, but since he'd just given me three hundred quid, I wasn't going to question the man. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted - I wasn't going to do anything that might offend him.

Once again the journey was spent in silence, and I almost dosed off, but luckily the cab pulled up just before I managed to nod off. I once again tried to pay, but again Sherlock beat me to it. I thanked him, before heading inside and un-packing the groceries.

That done, I pulled off my battered converse, changed out of my hoodie, t-shirt and jeans and into my blue penguin pyjamas, before slumping into my arm-chair, pulling the blanket over me and settling the pillow under my head and falling asleep.

_**Sherlock's Point Of View…**_

I snuck back into the new girl's flat, after hearing no movement for half an hour, wanting to know more about her.

As of yet, I didn't even know her name, let alone her age or anything else of her past. All I knew was that she was honest, and kept herself to herself. I could tell by the way she conducted herself: present, but not quite fully involved. There was something intriguing about her, I had to admit, and I couldn't wait to find out more about her.

I could tell she hated taking that three hundred pounds from me, but she hadn't had a choice. I could also tell she was extremely tired this morning after her late night of putting furniture together. What I couldn't tell was why I felt guilty for her fatigue.

I picked up a letter addressed to her - Thorn Watts, Miss - before putting it back exactly where I was before walking deeper into the flat to see her, curled up in a big red armchair under a white faux-fur blanket with a black pillow under her head.

I watched her for a few seconds, aware of just how disturbing my behaviour was, before leaving the flat and re-locking the door behind me. My little trip had proved nothing, and yet for some reason I felt accomplished. _Well, Mycroft always did claim I was going to go mad one day, I guess he was right_, I thought before smiling to myself and thinking; _Mycroft, right? Impossible._


	2. Chapter 2

**Love Songs (They Kill Me)**

**Chapter Two**

_**- Night Visitor -**_

Waking up again was difficult, but I pushed through the cobwebs in my mind before shuffling to the kitchen to put the coffee on and then going to the bathroom to have a shower. Half way there, I noticed something was amiss in the hallway. It was noting major, there was just something odd.

You see, Sherlock wasn't the only one who could deduce things, the only differences were that I probably wasn't as good as him and I didn't use my skills for my job. I scanned the hallway twice more before noticing it - a piece of my post was out of place. Yesterday I'd just picked it up and thrown it on the hallway table, but now the top piece of mail was a centimetre and a half more to the left then it had been. A measurement too small for most people to notice, but I did a lot of observational drawing in my youth, a distance like that can make a lot of difference to perspective and the look of a drawing, so it was something I picked up on.

It appeared that someone had moved my post, and to do that, they'd have to have had to come into my flat.

And I didn't see John or Mrs Hudson picking the lock on my door.

Which left three theories - a stranger; someone I used to know and have very likely pissed off; or the consulting detective upstairs. Now don't get me wrong, I have annoyed a lot of people, but I've officially lived here for three days now. They haven't had a chance to find me and break in, plus they wouldn't have been so careful about putting the letter back where it was. That last bit applied to a stranger too. So that left Sherlock.

Why had he broken into my flat?

Deciding that I wasn't going to puzzle out the workings of Sherlock Holmes's inner mind while standing in my hallway wearing pyjamas I went and had my shower. The hot water helped clear my mind a little more and by the time I got out, I resolved to go and ask him why he'd been in my flat.

I pulled on clean black skinnies, a MIW band t-shirt and cherry red combat boots. My concealer was smeared on before I applied thick black eye-liner and cherry red lipstick to match the boots. Bracelets covered both wrists from hand to almost mid-forearm, as a habit I'd carried on from school. My black hoodie from yesterday completed my outfit, and I walked upstairs to confront my night-time visitor…

John opened the door with a smile, although I wasn't sure why. I had been overly nice to him, in fact I'd only had one conversation with him and it had only been about a minute long. I didn't understand how some people were so friendly; personally, I had to work to maintain a friendly attitude to shop keepers, let alone someone knocking on my door at ten in the morning on a Sunday.

"Hello, Thorn." he said cheerfully.

"Hey John, is Sherlock here?" I asked in a warm voice. As much as I didn't understand John's positive attitude, I did admire and like him for it.

"Yeah…" he said, sounding suspicious, "You're not here to murder him are you?"

"Not this time, no." I replied dryly.

He smirked before opening the door and gesturing for me to come inside, and the look on Sherlock's face at the fact I was allowed in was priceless. Utter disbelief.

"She implies she's going to kill me one day, and you _let her in_?" he asked, stunned.

"Well she's not going to kill you today." John stated logically, before turning to me: "Tea?"

"Yes, please." I said, and he nodded before going into what I presumed was the kitchen.

I turned to Sherlock, how was carefully not looking at me. Deciding to get straight to the point, I asked: "Why were you in my flat while I was asleep?"

"I wasn't in your flat this morning." he said, looking at me blankly.

"You're lying." I replied.

"No I'm not."

"Your face is too blank, even for a sociopath, too calm. You're hiding something, and the only thing I've talked to you is coming into my flat. Also, I never mentioned a time, but you did."

Sherlock was silent; he just looked at me appraisingly.

"So?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"So I was in your flat. So what?"

"Sherlock!" John shouted from the kitchen, "She's not a suspect - you cannot break into her flat!"

"I was curious!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"You were bored." I muttered, not intending to be heard.

"That too." he said in response. I merely raised an eyebrow, daring him to say something, and he didn't. Which was good, because Sherlock was amazingly intelligent, and I wasn't sure I'd have a comeback for anything he said. I know my limits, and arguing with Sherlock was probably beyond them.

"Just. Apologise." John said, sounding as if he was shouting through gritted teeth.

Sherlock looked at me dully: "I'm. Sorry."

I shrugged. "Why'd do it?" I wasn't angry, I just wanted to know.

"I was curious - I know nothing about you, can only deduce minor things like you haven't had any coffee. It's new to me."

"Coulda just asked." I said as John came in with my tea, "Thanks." I said gratefully.

"You could have lied."

"And you would know when I'm lying."

Sherlock nodded, and then went silent for a moment, looking thoughtful. And then the questions started. And I regretted saying he 'coulda just asked'.

An hour later, I was more than just regretting telling Sherlock that he just ask me what he wanted to know, and I'd spilled half my soul. Sherlock know knew my full name was Thorn Rosa Watts, my father was dead and my mother was a hippy that I never spoke to anymore, I had had to quit my job because I was moving to the other side of London, and I like painting and drawing.

Whereas I knew that Sherlock was a perfectionist who had a very active mind, he was a highly-functioning sociopath and that he had no idea as to empathy or sympathy was. When I told him my mother and father had been absent most of my childhood, he'd asked why I didn't just go after them.

Like I said, no idea.

It was refreshing though, his bluntness. I had the feeling that Sherlock would never spare anyone's feelings - was the kind of person that would never sugar-coat bad news or try to 'protect' someone from the truth. It was…nice, once you got used to it. One thing I didn't like about people was the constant bullshit they came out with, or the way they'd lie and when called on it would just say_ 'Oh I was trying to protect you'_ because they thought you were too weak or too stupid to handle the truth. If Sherlock thought I was too stupid to hear the truth, he'd tell me outright and I'd punch him until he told me what I wanted to know. Simple.

But eventually, I went back to my own flat to cook myself some dinner. Simple prawns and tuna in a tomato and chilli sauce, served with brown pasta, but it was one of the few things I could successfully cook and it tasted okay. Didn't really matter anyway, as I basically just scarfed it down before getting ready for bed. Something was telling me that something big was going to happen tomorrow, and although I didn't know what exactly…I knew it would be _something._


End file.
